


let's open up those blinds, let's put away those claws

by everybodylies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drunk Avengers, M/M, PTSD, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Falcon, dealing with grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> The next morning, Sam and Bucky sit on a bench, side by side, sunglasses shielding their eyes, coffee cups clutched protectively in front of their chests, as Steve sprints laps of the Mall. </em>
</p><p>  <em>"Seems like you guys sure had fun last night," Steve shouts, loud and unforgiving, at the pair when he passes them for the third time. Bucky cringes, while Sam tries, unsuccessfully, to cover his ears in time. "Hope you didn't drink too much!"</em></p><p>  <em>"Smug son of a bitch," Bucky mutters at Steve's back. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	let's open up those blinds, let's put away those claws

**Author's Note:**

> Oh jeez, well I hope I did Sam Wilson justice with this. Let me know what you think! Concrit always welcome

When Steve calls Sam and tells him that the Winter Soldier is now living in Steve's guest bedroom and is agreeing to undergo therapy, Sam is happy for Steve. Really.

Maybe he's still not sure that the Winter Soldier is anything more than a shell of a man, but the fact that he gave himself up willingly without brutally murdering anyone is encouraging. Also, Steve is _convinced_ that the Winter Soldier saved him from the river after the battle, and besides, Steve's voice sounds so fucking happy over the phone, which is a nice change from when Sam had asked him about what made him happy, and he'd only been able to respond with an "I don't know" and the saddest smile Sam had ever seen in his life.

So yeah, he'll be as supportive as he can be to Steve—

_even though he'd seen the Winter Soldier's eyes himself and they were cold and dark and blank_

— and reserve judgement, for now.

In the meantime, Sam continues working at the VA, except with less hours, because Nick Fury's got his number now, and he calls Sam whenever SHIELD needs help, which, considering that SHIELD is technically nonexistent and is made up of like ten people, is pretty much all the time. Fury had persuaded the military to let Sam keep the wings, so Sam figures he owes him. Anyway, it's the only chance he gets to use the wings, and he'll do anything for that (though he'll never admit it because he's supposed to be the well-adjusted one).

Sam also continues his morning runs with Steve, and sometimes they go for coffee or bowling or whatever, and Steve updates him on all the progress the Winter Soldier (and Sam figures he should probably start thinking of the guy as "Bucky" now, but habit sticks, and he keeps going back and forth) is making. Sam listens with a smile as Steve tells him about that pre-war memory that Bucky recalled the other day or that night that Bucky made it through without a single bad dream, but Sam never asks about going over to Steve's place and finally meeting Bucky, and Steve never offers.

Sam gets it. Fuck, when Sam had first gotten back from overseas, he spent an entire month bottled up in his apartment, curtains jammed closed. He can't even imagine what Bucky must be going through. Realizing that you've lost all your memories and that you've assassinated dozens of people can't be easy, and Sam's happy to give Bucky some space.

And, alright, _maybe_ he's still a little bit pissed at the guy for ripping one of his wings off (which took him for-fucking-ever to repair, and there's still a bunch of hairline cracks in the gears to remind him of that sucker-punch he felt in his gut when he realized he was grounded), and alright, maybe, just maybe, he's still a little bit scared of him, scared of the way he'd sauntered onto that bridge and shot and stabbed without even the slightest hint of remorse or humanity or even pleasure.

So when Sam gets home from the VA late one night, only to find the (former?) Winter Soldier sprawled out on his couch, he has a heart attack and screams, "Oh, fuck!” He puts one hand on his hip and the other in front of his eyes, as he calms his breathing. "It's you," he sighs. "Are you here to kill me?"

"You know, if I hadn't had therapists up my ass for the past two months, I might have taken offense at that," Bucky drawls. Sam hears Bucky stand up, and he removes his hand from his face to find the man standing in front of him, arm outstretched. “Pleased to meetcha. I'm Bucky Barnes," Bucky says, then grins easily. "You may also know me as the Winter Soldier."

The grin seals it for Sam. It's such a contrast from before that all mentions of the Winter Soldier in Sam's brain are immediately replaced with the name "Bucky Barnes." He can't be the Winter Soldier anymore, not with that smile.

"Sam Wilson," Sam says, taking Bucky's hand and shaking it. "You may also know me as Falcon, part-time superhero," he adds proudly.

Bucky nods. "Oh, I know all about that. I'm a big fan of the Falcon."

"Really."

"Yeah, I've seen you in action. You've always got people's backs. You're a real team player."

"Can't make it in the military if you're not," Sam says, shrugging.

"No, I s'pose you can't," Bucky murmurs.

There's a few seconds of awkward silence, and then Sam says, a little harshly, "So. Why did you break into my house?" Because he's a nice guy, and he knows that Bucky must be going through a lot, and he'll talk to the man if he wants, but, _really_ , you can't go around breaking into people's houses and scaring the shit out of them, especially if you're a former assassin. It's just not fair.

"Sorry," Bucky says, and he flashes a smile that Sam's sure used to make all the ladies swoon back in the day. "You were out, and… old habits, I guess." He holds up and jangles a pair of keys that Sam remembers he'd given to Steve a couple weeks ago. "And does it really count as 'breaking in' if I had a key?"

"Yes?" Sam replies, as if the answer is obvious because it is. "Whatever. Anyway, that's not what I was asking. What I meant is: why did you come here? Did you need to talk about… something?"

"Not really." Bucky sighs and flops back down onto the couch, making himself at home, and a bewildered Sam resists the urge to throw up his hands. "I just wanted to get out of the apartment."

Sam yawns. It's late, and he considers throwing this Russian hobo out on his ass, as is his right as an American citizen. Eventually, though, he decides _fine, I'll take the bait_ , and he sits down on the edge of one of his armchairs, his elbows on his knees. It must be his inner therapist.

"Does Steve not let you out or something?" Sam asks, half laughing.

"No, he does. It's just, uh." Bucky looks at Sam. "You know I love Steve, right? To pieces. He's my best friend, best guy I ever met." His mouth twists into a frown, as if speaking badly about Steve is unthinkable.

"But…" Sam prompts.

"He's too worried," Bucky sighs. "If I want to go on a walk or make a run to the supermarket, he'll come with. What am I going to do, turn him down? Don't get me wrong, I love spending time with the guy, but… I don't need his help. And we don't _do_ anything. I go to therapy, and then we just eat and watch documentaries about space or whatever on the TV. He won't even spar with me.

"He's… he's coddling me. Which is bullshit, you know, because I used to be the one coddling _him_ , back in the day."

Sam snorts. "You used to coddle Captain America?"

"Yeah, they don't mention that in the history books? Someone had to make sure his scrawny ass didn't die of pneumonia or blunt force trauma or an asthma attack," Bucky says, pride in his voice. "Or tuberculosis, or scarlet fever, or a heart—"

"Okay, I get the drift. Well, have you tried talking to him about it?" Sam asks mildly.

"Pfft, no," Bucky scoffs. "I wait for him to go to sleep, and then I climb out my window. Today, I decided to come here, meet you."

"You sneak out? What are you, sixteen?"

"Shaddup. Anyway, I've heard good things about you. Heard you're a good guy. So I thought maybe you wouldn't mind takin' the time to hang out with another vet. What do you say?"

Bucky's eyes are hopeful, with a tinge of sad, and Sam thinks no, no, no because he can feel it right now. He can feel the way he's being pulled into even more supersoldier shenanigans already, so soon after the first round finished. He takes a moment to ponder all the decisions he's made and when exactly his life managed to make a complete turn for the bizarre and land him here. Then he says, "Depends… What do you wanna do?"

Bucky reaches into his pocket and puts on, by far, the _douchiest_ pair of aviators that Sam has ever seen. Only now does Sam take a good look at Bucky. His hair is shorter now, two or three inches long, and it's been gelled back. He's wearing a button down shirt that covers most of his metal arm, with dark skinny jeans and a pair of black boots. Honestly, he looks hot. Apparently, in between all the therapy sessions, Bucky had somehow found time to pick up 21st century style (a feat that Steve has still not accomplished).

"I wanna go out."

"Fuck it," Sam sighs. "Why not."

* * *

Two bars, ten shots, seven beers, five martinis, and one argument about the definition of "breaking in" later, Sam snorts into his drink, while Bucky merely smirks in pride at the dumb joke he'd just told.

"Y'know," Sam slurs, "now I know why you broke into my house today." He glances at the clock. "I mean yesterday, I guess."

"We _discussed_ this!" Bucky erupts. "S'not breaking in if you have a key—"

"Okay, okay, whatever, whatever," Sam says quickly. "You came to my house because you, Bucky Barnes," Sam jabs a finger into Bucky's chest, "are a nice guy."

Bucky's small smile is genuine. "Really? Y'think so?"

"Yeah, and I'll tell you why. It's 'cause you wanted to get shitfaced drunk, but you felt bad about dragging Steve along since he can't get drunk with you, and no one should have to deal with the mess that is Shitfaced Bucky Barnes while sober."

Bucky pulls himself up straight. "M'not a mess."

"You, sir," Sam says, jabbing his finger into Bucky's chest again for emphasis, "are a drunk mess."

Sam's finger manages to send Bucky off balance, and he begins slowly tipping backwards.

"Whoa, there!" Sam shouts, grabbing at the other man's collar.

* * *

The next morning, Sam and Bucky sit on a bench, side by side, sunglasses shielding their eyes, coffee cups clutched protectively in front of their chests, as Steve sprints laps of the Mall.

"Seems like you guys sure had fun last night," Steve shouts, loud and unforgiving, at the pair when he passes them for the third time. Bucky cringes, while Sam tries, unsuccessfully, to cover his ears in time. "Hope you didn't drink too much!"

"Smug son of a bitch," Bucky mutters at Steve's back.

"Hey, do you think he feels left out because we didn't invite him?" Sam asks, a little worriedly.

"No, he just likes to torture me," Bucky replies, without having to think about it. "And you, too, apparently. Congratulations, you are officially a friend of Steve Rogers."

"I didn't know it'd be this hard. I thought it'd be easier."

Bucky bursts out laughing. "No, it's not easy," he says, cringing from his headache, but still laughing. "It's fuckin' difficult, that's what it is."

Sam thinks of how Steve had showed up on his doorstep, a war on his heels. No, it really isn't easy.

Bucky calms himself down, then adds, "You know, he's not gonna let us live this down until we get _him_ hungover."

"But how? He doesn't get drunk, right?"

"I mean, that's what Erskine said," Bucky says with a shrug. "But it's 2014, Sam. If we can't figure out a way to make Captain America drunk, I mean, what has this all been for? What have we been working towards? What's the point?"

Sam lazily lets his head fall backward, and he laughs, mouth to the sky. "What was he like? Y'know, when he was drunk."

"God," Bucky moans. "After the third beer, Steve'd get so fighty. Even more than normal. I'd have to stumble around after him and try to keep him from getting himself killed. And if there was no one around, he'd just start punching me."

"Man, I'd pay to see that," Sam says, laughing again. Then he pauses and thinks. "You know, I bet if Stark and Dr. Banner put their heads together, they could figure something out."

"Good idea. I'll—"

Sam and Bucky are alerted to Steve's next lap by the ear-shattering shriek of a whistle.

"Where the _hell_ did you get that?" Sam groans.

"People just love letting me borrow things," Steve shouts in reply as he passes by. "Funny, isn't it? I think it's 'cause I have a nice smile."

Again, Steve disappears into the distance, and Sam casually glances down at his watch. "Hm, I think that was his fastest lap yet," he says, as Bucky turns away and presses his cup into Sam's chest.

"Here, hold this. I think I'm gonna puke."

"No, not in the reflecting pool!"

* * *

He ends up spending more time with Bucky as the days go on. Bucky's actually a fun guy to hang out with, and Steve's a lot more reassured when he knows that it's Sam that Bucky's with, so it all works out.

Sometimes they all hang out, Sam, Bucky, and Steve, and they basically just take potshots at each other and joke around. It makes Sam feel like he's back in the barracks again, before everything went to shit, and Sam doesn't miss a lot from Afghanistan, but he does miss that.

Sometimes, when Nat's in town, she comes and hangs out with them, and Sam loves that, too. With the four of them, it feels almost like a family, which Sam has really been lacking lately, since his ma and sis are still down in Atlanta. He likes it best when they're all driving somewhere, and the car is full, and the windows are rolled down, and Bucky and Steve are jammed into the backseat because Nat called shotgun first, always does, and Etta James is playing through the speakers because Sam's driving and he gets choosing privileges, thank you very much, so keep your freakishly long arm in the back seat, Rogers, and Nat is sticking her head out the window and yelling at the drivers who are cutting them off, and Steve and Bucky are complaining about using their seat belts because apparently they weren't in standard usage until the fifties.

And, sometimes, most of the time, it's just Sam and Bucky, and Sam likes it just fine that way, too.

He likes getting to know The Bucky Barnes firsthand, through his own eyes. The fiercely loyal Bucky Barnes, who was the famed sniper of the Howling Commandos, who got a whole half of a page to himself in Sam's ninth grade history textbook, who was played by Gregory Peck in the movie and Matt Damon in the HBO miniseries. The Bucky Barnes who Steve Rogers disobeyed orders and crossed the German military line for, who Steve Rogers fell out of a helicarrier for.

There's a lot that the gets left out when you become a historical figure, as Sam had learned earlier with Steve, and Sam has to reconcile what he sees himself with the image of Bucky Barnes that has endured in his head. For instance. Bucky Barnes, war hero, finds joy in the simplest of things, whether it's a button on a waitress' blouse that's slipped open or a family of ducks going for a swim in the pond. When a baby in a stroller takes an interest in Bucky's shiny, metal arm during a walk in the park, Bucky plays peekaboo with her for ten minutes, matching her giggles with his own.

He'll ask you how your day was, and he'll listen as you tell him, with genuine interest, about the nightmare with the meatballs or that shirt you need to get dry-cleaned or your trip to the DMV. And though Sam knows he's a pretty funny guy, even he can't make the DMV interesting. But Bucky just listens, eyes rapt, as though there's nowhere else for him to be.

Bucky's also got a superb sense of humor, and he'll take arm jokes or amnesia jokes like a champ. He's slightly more merciful when he dishes it back, but the better he knows you, the worse he gets. It's the worst with Steve; Sam doesn't think he's ever seen two people who love each other so much snipe at each other with such relentlessness.

When they're together, they'll talk about anything and everything. About books and movies and music, about their families, about Steve, about baseball. They'll debate Obamacare and God and which food truck sells the best tacos. He learns that Bucky actually has an ear for gossip, and somehow he's always caught up on the latest SHIELD drama, like who Fury went on a date with last night or what Tony's latest project is (and it's never a flying car, to Bucky's disappointment).

Sometimes they'll run out of stuff to talk about, but it's no matter because Bucky'll just start regaling Sam with tales of his and Steve's adventures from before. Bucky has, what seems to be, an endless supply of stories, and he can go on for hours without any repeats. On the off chance that Bucky does accidentally repeat a story, Sam will just wordlessly let him continue because he likes the way Bucky's eyes glow when he talks about the past. Bucky enjoys remembering, revels in it, and he tells the stories slowly, with dramatic pauses and excessive detail, because he knows that the memories aren't about to slip out of his mind, like they used to.

* * *

Bucky is curled up, hugging his knees to his chest, his back resting against the headboard. Sam sits beside him, above the covers. His hand is on Bucky's left shoulder, where the metal meets skin, and he's trying very, very hard not to think about how strange this is, that they're having this conversation in his bed.

"Do you think I could ever make it right?" Bucky asks hoarsely after he finishes describing a memory of a particularly gruesome assassination.

"Maybe," Sam admits. He'd learned that Bucky responded better to plain truth than to meaningless comfort. "You're doing alright, though, working with the Avengers. You saved that little girl's life yesterday, remember?"

"I've killed girls like her."

Sam swallows and forces himself not to react harshly. He keeps his hand on Bucky's back. "Yeah, well, now you're saving 'em. Nothing to do but that. Nothing to do but keep going. For the rest of your abnormally long life."

Bucky doesn't respond, and after a silence, Sam adds, "You know you can talk to Steve about this stuff, right?"

When he says this, he's not thinking about the way that Bucky woke him up at two in the morning by climbing through his bedroom window and scaring him halfway to Siberia. He's not upset about that, though, to be honest, he'd really prefer that Bucky start using the doorbell. No, he's thinking about Steve's creased face, filled with worry, during their last lunch date.

"He doesn't talk to me when he's upset," Steve had lamented. "He doesn't tell me about the bad things. He just jokes and smiles likes nothing ever happened. I mean, I don't mind if it's me he doesn't want to talk to, but he doesn't have to go to therapy anymore because they cleared him, and I just want to make sure he's talking to someone, at least. Sam, can you, please,—I don't know…"

"Yeah, man, I got you," Sam had replied. And then he'd wondered what it meant that he knew more about the blood that stained Bucky's hands than Steve did.

Bucky just shrugs and mutters, "Don't wanna disappoint him."

"But you don't mind disappointing me 'cause I got low standards, is that right?"

Bucky chuckles lowly, almost like a growl. It's at times like these when Bucky seems most like the Winter Soldier, and Sam hates it because Bucky hates it and because Bucky tries so hard and never cuts himself any slack.

"Come on, are we even talking about the same Steve Rogers, here? Tall guy, blond, Captain America on the weekends, only wears khaki pants ever?" Bucky snorts. "He'd understand. He wouldn't be disappointed in you."

"Well, maybe I just like talking to you," Bucky retorts. "You ever thought about that?"

Sam's heart lurches in his chest.

"No, I, uh, never thought about that," he says.

* * *

"Tell me about Riley," Bucky says, during a lull in the conversation.

It's one of those bright summer days where Sam has to squint to see. The air is hot and puffy, but not too humid. They're sitting at an outside table at Starbucks, sipping iced coffees. It's nice. Sam likes warm weather, and Bucky does, too, for obvious reasons. They had both been in good moods.

"What?" It comes out harsher than he'd meant it; Bucky had caught him off-guard.

Bucky quickly frowns. "Sorry, I thought…"

"No, no, it's fine," Sam corrects. _I thought you'd be okay by now_ , is what Bucky means. What Bucky means is it's been four whole years, and Sam's a counselor at that. He should know how to deal with grief. Theoretically.

And he _had_ dealt with it. He'd been okay for a long time. But now… feelings are resurfacing, and he has no idea why. Instead of pondering this thought further, he picks up his coffee and takes a sip in an overly casual manner. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I ran into some guy at the VA. Said you and Riley were the two most annoying soldiers he'd ever had the displeasure of having in his unit. Then he told me to tell you to get your ass over to his house for dinner sometime. Color me intrigued."

He hasn't been over to dinner for a while. Making fun of the Commander isn't as fun without someone to high-five when you deliver a massive burn.

"That would be Commander Whitmore," Sam explains fondly. "See, me and Riley… we weren't too keen on what you might call 'rules' or 'orders.'"

"Really?" Bucky laughs. "I always saw you as a 'by the book' kinda guy."

"Maybe, in another unit. Another job. But I was in pararescue, and that was different." The words start coming easier to him now, and the uneasiness from before melts away. "Back then, the wings were super new tech. They were some military scientist's pet project, his baby. But what he didn't understand was that the moment those wings left his lab, they weren't his anymore. They were ours. And he thought he knew them better than us, and he made rules. Like don't go out in winds higher than fifteen knots. And don't carry anything heavier than 100 kilos. But he wasn't the one flying them, so he didn't know, the commander didn't know. Nobody knew but us, what the wings were capable of. We knew, so we disobeyed, let's be real, a shit ton of orders. Saved a lot of men that way." Sam finishes and finds himself grinning proudly.

Bucky nods, eyebrows raised. "Sam and Riley, rebel pararescuemen. Impressive."

"Yeah, so combine that rebel part with the part where me and Riley can't go a minute without cracking each other up, and you get the two biggest pains in Commander Whitmore's ass.

"Whitmore was the 'by the book' guy. Outside of the army, me and him get along just fine, but overseas, he _hated_ it when we'd go off against orders. It'd make his face go all red and splotchy. Couldn't be too mad when we came back with live men, though.

"It's funny, I always thought…" Sam frowns. "I always thought that that was what would get us in the end, you know? The disobeying orders thing. Carrying too much, trying too much, flying too close to the sun, some Icarus shit. But no. It was just… bad luck."

"It's never what you expect," Bucky agrees, eyes sympathetic.

He could keep going. He hasn't talked about this shit for a while. He could keep talking about bad luck and RPGs and the most standard fucking night mission he'd ever run, but the good memories are coming back to him now— _Riley Simmons, professional loose cannon, reporting for duty, sir!_ —and he's not going to be the one who ruins this beautiful day. So instead, he says,

"You want me to tell you about Riley. Well, I think the way to go would be to first tell you a story about how Riley got a bird to shit on Commander Whitmore's face…"

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, demigods and supersoldiers, we are gathered here today to witness a monumental occasion," Tony begins, as he snaps on a pair of gloves and prepares the needle. "Today is the day that Avengers Tower has its first Party. Party with a capital 'P.' Oh sure, we've had some good times before. Like the time that Clint puked onto Thor's face, or that time we all woke up naked, or that time Natasha had an incident with the toilet… which none of us ever talk about in detail lest we run the risk of receiving grievous bodily harm. But never have we had a real Party." Tony pauses dramatically. "Not until now. Not until today… the day we get Captain America as drunk as the rest of us!

"Huzza—Anyone? Anyone? Can I get a 'huzzah'? Thor? Yes, very good—"

"Enough with the theatrics, Tony," Steve cuts in with a sigh. "Can we get this show on the road?"

Natasha quirks an eyebrow upward. "Someone's eager."

"Believe it or not, I wasn't always a saint," Steve replies.

Bucky shakes his head and mutters to Sam, "He's always been a saint. He just got shitfaced drunk on occasion."

"So, what is that?" Steve asks, pointing to the IV bag filled with a clear liquid.

"That, my friend," Tony answers, "is pure ethanol. 200 proof, straight from the bag to your bloodstream, with no pesky stomach acid to dilute it. If this doesn't work, I don't know what will."

Thor grimaces, as if that were one of the worst possible things that could happen to a person. He solemnly clasps a strong hand on Steve's shoulder. "Do not fear, my friend. I give you my word that I will support you no matter what. If that means having a dry night with you every so often, I will do that."

"Thanks, Thor," Steve says with a laugh. "That won't be necessary, but I really do appreciate the offer."

Bucky glares suspiciously at the IV bag. "Is this safe?" he asks.

"Hell if I know," Tony says, then flinches when Bucky shoots him a dirty look. "Hey, don't be getting all uppity on me, old man. This was your idea."

Tony starts approaching Steve with the needle, until Bruce stealthily plucks it from his hand, muttering something about "real doctors."

"'Real doctors?'" Tony cries, hands in the air, as Bruce cleans Steve's elbow with a wipe. "Last time I checked, you didn't have an M.D. either."

"At least I have EMT training," Bruce fires back. "Look, you didn't even sterilize the area."

"He's Captain America! I figure he can handle a few germs." Tony gives up on the fight and instead, grinning, turns to Steve. "No man left behind, am I right, Cap?" he asks.

Steve returns the grin. "For once, Tony… yes, you're right."

* * *

For Sam and Bucky, tonight's drink of choice is wine. Bucky hands him a glass, as they both sit back on stools and watch the chaos develop in the couch area.

Bucky touches his glass to Sam's, and they both take a sip. Then, Bucky says, "You know, Wilson, I think we did something good tonight."

"'Good' is a fucking understatement, Barnes," Sam snorts. The wine is warm in his belly. "This is marvelous."

"No, I mean 'good' in a… in a moral way. Steve worries too much, you know? About me. And about shit like liberty and justice for all. He needs to let loose every once in a while."

Sam hums his agreement, and they watch as Steve drunkenly challenges Natasha to a wrestling match.

"See? What did I say?" Bucky says smugly. "Fighty. Same as before."

"So are you gonna go in there, break it up?" Sam asks. "Like you used to?"

Bucky doesn't respond quickly, and Sam looks over. "I… don't know," Bucky realizes, a little solemnly. "That's what I did when he was still a pipsqueak… I'm not sure how it goes now."

The somber moment catches and sticks for a few seconds, until it is interrupted by a drunken argument which somehow ends with Thor replacing Natasha as Steve's opponent.

"Scratch that, now I know," Bucky groans. He puts down his wineglass behind him, then stands up and walks briskly toward the other Avengers. "Ey, Rogers! Stop pickin' fights with the nice people, wouldya?"

* * *

The next morning, Fury's face flickers onto the screen, and his temple throbs at the sight of upturned furniture and unconscious Avengers. "What in the damn hell went on here last night?"

Tony woozily peels his face from the floor. "Well, if I'm remembering right, and I'm pretty sure I am—"

"Rhetorical question, Stark," Fury snaps. "Spare me the details. Now listen up. I've got a rogue Hydra cell that needs to be taken care of."

Natasha and Thor are reasonably functional, thanks to their Russian or non-human metabolisms. Tony, who'd recently started toning down the partying, is okay, too. Bruce and Clint need to puke a few times in Tony's master bathroom, about which Tony is not pleased, but they're mostly fine after that. Sam and Bucky are the least impaired.

Steve, well. Steve is another story. They find him passed out on the balcony, wearing his uniform backwards, and using his shield as a pillow.

"Well, that's a timesaver," Natasha notes dryly.

Steve is still, too still, and a growing panic begins to worm its way into Sam's chest. Reaching out, he grasps Bucky's left arm and squeezes the metal tightly. "Oh, God, do you think we killed him?"

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, and his widened eyes tell Sam that he's just as worried. "I don't know, I—"

"Relax, boys," Natasha says. She bends down and expertly places two fingers on Steve's neck. "If his heart can survive seventy years in a block of ice…" She smiles when she finds the pulse, then starts patting his chest. "Steve? Steve, it's time to wake up."

Steve groans but doesn't open his eyes.

"Here, let me try," says Clint, strolling over. He bends down to Steve's ear and shouts, "Captain! Wake up. America needs you!"

Steve groggily opens his eyes. Clint smirks, satisfied, while a stunned Natasha merely sits back on her heels. "This is a joke, right? Did that really work?" she asks.

"Wha…?" Steve begins.

"Steve, listen to me," Natasha says, her voice all business now. "We have a mission. We have to go."

"Uh," groans Steve, and Sam and Bucky stifle their laughter.

Natasha looks up at the rest of them. "His condition's not great. Should we leave him behind?"

At this, Steve finally seems to wake up. "No, wait!" he objects. "I'm fine, I can come." He moves to stand, and Sam and Bucky walk over to help.

Natasha fixes him with a doubtful look, and Steve continues, "No, really. I'm fine. It's just been a while since I've felt like this—" He leans over the edge of the balcony and throws up. Twenty seconds later, the sound of muffled screams echoes throughout the buildings of New York.

"Hey, have some respect," Clint shouts back. "That is the puke of a _national hero_!"

Natasha looks at Sam and Bucky this time. _He's fine_ , Sam mouths, and Bucky nods, eyebrows pinched and serious.

However, it doesn't actually matter what condition Steve's in because nobody lands a punch on him during the entire mission. Any Hydra agent that approaches Captain America either gets sniped in the head or picked up into the air and dropped a hundred feet away.

After a few minutes of this, Steve, falling out of his attack stance, turns his head to the sky and shouts, "Come on, guys! I'm hungover, not useless!"

Revenge complete. Sam sneaks a look at Bucky sitting behind his sniper rifle atop a building in the distance, and Bucky removes his head from the scope for a moment to grin at him, full of life. Sam grins back as he feels something bubbling in his chest, and it occurs to him, for the first time in a long time, that everything is as exactly it should be.

* * *

The day is shit from the beginning.

First off, it's rainy and grey and gusty, and even though he's not doing rescues anymore, that kind of weather always sets his teeth on edge. It brings to mind memories that he'd rather not recall. Memories of hitting a thermal and tumbling and forgetting where the ground is, of losing sight of Riley in the cloud cover, of holding onto the slippery body armor of an unconscious soldier as hard as he possibly can and praying, praying, praying—

Then Riley's sister calls, out of breath from crying, and between her sobs, he manages to figure out that there's something wrong with the payment for her mother's nursing home. And she's so, so sorry, but there's no one else she can call, and she never had to do the paperwork before 'cause her brother was the one who usually handled all of it, and they're gonna kick mom out soon if she doesn't do anything, please Sam. So Sam gets on the phone with the nursing home and argues with them for an hour, and when he finally gets it all sorted out, Riley's sister thanks him over and over again, and he thinks he should feel satisfied, but the feeling never comes.

Instead, he gets in that kind of mood where everything, even the dumbest shit, reminds him of Riley. He sees someone walking a Dalmatian; that's the kind of dog that Riley always wanted to get. He's at the cashier in the supermarket, and he's looking at that wall where they have the candies; Riley was a gum fiend, and he used keep all the little silver wrappers and make long, shiny chains when he was bored. A kid walks by, wearing a bright yellow raincoat; Riley's favorite socks were yellow, and they were against regulation, but he'd snuck them over anyway—and this is the most pathetic one of them all because it's just a fucking primary color that's upsetting him, and he knows he has to stop this. But he's not too hard on himself because he's a counselor, and he knows, and he knows everyone has _those_ days. And it's okay to get into a funk if you don't stay there.

Later, he goes over to Steve's for Sunday Family Dinner with Bucky and Nat, and he puts on a brave face for them. It helps, really. Helps him get back into the rhythm, reminds him what normal is.

He keeps it up until Bucky and Steve start telling a story from before the war about the worst double date they'd ever gone on. They interrupt each other, finish each other's sentences, basically telling the story in tandem. Their grins match, and it gets to be too much for Sam. He waits for them to finish, laughs with Nat, then makes some bullshit excuse about fresh air or something and heads for the fire escape. He sits with his back to the wall and watches the clouds drift in the breeze.

It doesn't take long for Steve to follow him; he's a perceptive guy. Sam doesn't mind much. Maybe he wants some company.

"You barely touched your chili," Steve says accusingly. "Don't tell me you can't handle the spice." Then, more seriously, "You okay, Sam?"

 _don't wanna disappoint him_ , Bucky had said to Sam once, and now he thinks he understands. Because the thoughts he's having right now are not ones he's proud of; they're made of petty jealousies and shameful hopes, and he knows he should think more rationally, but he can't. And Steve… he knows Steve would never judge him, would just listen and offer comfort, but it's hard to admit your shortcomings to the man who always makes you want to be better.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Sam says, waving him away. "It's just one of those days. Y'know."

Steve doesn't budge, just raises a doubtful eyebrow, and Sam offers him a smile to be more convincing.

"Really. I'm good. Go back and finish dinner."

"Alright," Steve says eventually. "We're having pecan pie for dessert. I know it's your favorite. Try to make it back in before Natasha eats it all." He places a warm hand on Sam's shoulder before he leaves.

He breathes. In, out. It's just one day. Everybody has days. He'll wake up tomorrow, and the sun'll be out. And don't worry, he's sure of that. He checked the forecast—

The window slides open, and Bucky pokes his head out. Sam’s breathing quickens ever so slightly.

"Mind if I join ya?" Bucky asks.

Sam throws his hands in the air. "It's not like I own this fire escape."

"Smart answer," Bucky replies, closing the window behind him, "because, actually, I own this fire escape. This is my go-to place for when I don't want to deal with _feelings_." He slides down the wall and sits on Sam's right.

"So emotionally repressed, Barnes," Sam snorts.

"Oh, you think you're better than me?"

"I know I'm better than you—"

"Then prove it. Talk. What's up with you?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's dumb."

"Come on, you wouldn't say that to any of your vets. So don't say it to yourself."

Sam opens his mouth to object but finds himself reconsidering. "Look, when I first met Steve," he begins instead, "he wasn't doing too good. I think he was still in mourning, hadn't figured out how to start living again. I was a little better off. I had some more time than him to deal, but I wasn't that great either. We had both lost people, me and him. And I felt like we were like… kindred spirits, y'know? We were both hurting, but we were makin' it through. And it was easier, together." Sam pauses while he tries to find the words. "And then… you came back. And Riley, he's still—he's still—" His voice cracks, and he leaves it at that, unable to continue.

Sam glances at Bucky out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to respond, but Bucky only sighs, long and drawn out.

"I know it's stupid," Sam says quickly. "I know I should be happy for you guys, and I know it was horrible for you, and you went through hell and back and I know it's fuckin' messed up for me to be jealous—"

"No, no way," Bucky says. "Sam…" He places his metal hand on Sam's knee, then frowns and tries to reach over with his right hand, instead, but the angle is too awkward, and he grumpily places his left hand back on Sam's knee. This entire series of events manages to extract a miserable chuckle from Sam. He doesn't mind about the metal; he's seen enough prosthetics around the VA that he doesn't even think twice.

"Sam… this would be hard on anyone. Watching me and Steve… I get it. I'm sorry."

Sam barks out a humorless laugh. "There's nothing you have to be sorry for."

Bucky licks his lips, and his eyes are soft. "Sam, life ain't fair, and war sucks, and I'm sorry."

Yeah, it isn't fair. None of it is. And if nothing’s fair, then what’s the goddamn point? In a fit of self-pity, Sam pushes Bucky’s hand off his knee, curls further in on himself.

"You know, before the battle in DC, I told Steve to give up on you. I told him there was nothing left in you to save.”

Bucky frowns. “Sam…" he sighs.

"How could I have done that? I mean, look at you. I was so wrong. I should have—”

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky snaps, with surprising force, “all you’d seen me do up to that point was _murder people_. There’s no way you could have known if there was any of me left. And even if you had known, you still would have been right. Steve was being a reckless little shit.”

Despite himself, Sam smirks. He turns for a moment to look at Bucky whose eyes are looking right back at him, bright and warm. Sam’s stomach flip-flops, and he quickly turns away again.

“Which reminds me,” Bucky continues. “I never properly thanked you. Y’know, for keeping him safe. If it wasn’t for you, Steve probably woulda showed up to the helicarrier with nothing but a bouquet of flowers and a record player."

“But you caught yourself,” Sam points out. “You came around in the end, saved him.”

“Not before I broke his face and shot him twice,” Bucky fires back with a miserable, nauseous expression.

 _You were brainwashed_ , Sam almost says, doesn’t say. _Every mistake I made was mine._ He doesn’t say this because this conversation just took a turn for the worse and is verging on a sad pity-party loaded with self-loathing. Sam doesn’t blame Bucky, of course; guy’s been through some major shit, and massive amounts of self-loathing are understandable, if not expected. But Sam realizes he’s got a choice here, and it’s all his. He and Bucky can commiserate on their various woes for a couple hours, or…

He’d set his deadline for getting over himself at tomorrow morning, but who says he can’t move it up a bit? And sitting here, on this fire escape, good friends and good food back inside, Bucky’s leg warm against his own, Sam thinks maybe he can.

“For what it’s worth,” Sam says, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on Bucky’s metal forearm, “I’m glad Steve didn’t kill you.”

Slowly, Bucky grins. “You sure know how to sweet talk a fella, Wilson.”

“That’s not all I know how to do,” he says, eyebrows wagging, and Bucky laughs.

Sam stares at the horizon, and he can just about glimpse the sun behind the clouds. Well, here goes nothin’.

“So you gonna kiss me or what?”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and Sam thinks this may be the first time he’s ever seen the former assassin so flustered, but Bucky quickly collects himself. He runs a hand through his hair in an irritatingly attractive fashion and, leaning closer, whispers, “If the gentleman insists.”

Five minutes later, Sam hears the window open once again. “Yes!” Natasha shrieks. “I _knew_ they were out here swapping spit. You owe me ten bucks, Rogers!”

Sam reluctantly pulls away from Bucky to see Steve poking his head out the window with a mildly disapproving look on his face. “Seriously, guys?” Steve has to take a moment to stifle his grin, and even then, he fails. “I don’t even have change.”

Bucky puts his hands up, palms out. “Don’t blame me! Sam seduced me.”

Sam licks his lips and tries not to smile. He pulls out his wallet. “I got two tens for a twenty,” he offers.

“That’ll do,” Steve replies. “Now get back in here and finish dinner, you lovebirds.”


End file.
